


Fishing

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:12:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock needs just a teensy bit of help from his big brother. It's a minor thing. It really is. But you know what they get like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fishing

“He’s here,” Sherlock said, grinning broadly as he tipped his glass to his lips.

Mycroft glanced back at his younger brother. “Your assassin?”

“Embezzler,” Sherlock said, laughing. Neither the grin nor the laughter actually penetrated his words. But everyone else at the gala was smiling, and camouflage came in many colours.

“How delightful for you. I hope you’ll be very happy together.” Mycroft turned away.

“Of course, if you wish to see the remaining financial infrastructure of Greece slip away, I can certainly hold back my tears. One less vote in the EEC will certainly strengthen the British position. Should make your little friends a bit easier to manipulate.”

Mycroft wheeled toward him abruptly, one hand clenching around Sherlock’s elbow as he steered him back the way he’d come. “Masterminding the downfall of an entire continent’s economy so early in the evening is a bit gauche even for you, little brother.”

Now Sherlock’s smile was genuine. “All I need you to do is distract him. Thirty seconds while I go through his pockets. He’s supposed to make the handover tonight, he must have something on him.”

“And if I do this for you, will it buy me any peace?”

“Oh, am I cramping your style?” Sherlock turned and faced him without actually looking at him, affecting surprise. “Have I reset your apocalypse clock? I’m terribly sorry.”

“It’s not too late to add your name to the New Year’s Honours list.”

“Yes, you never did really get the hang of threats, did you?” Sherlock said brightly, then dropped all pretense. “You need him stopped every bit as much as I do. Thirty seconds.”

“I’d love to,” Mycroft said brightly, beaming at him abruptly. “Ten feet behind you. Try not to trip.” 

Mycroft let go of Sherlock’s elbow and swung past him into the crowd. Sherlock straightened his velvet jacket, checked his cuffs, and relaxed. His spine curved, his shoulders lowered, and he let his eyes slip down, effectively becoming a shadow of himself, and then slipped into the bright wake of Mycroft.

“Ahh, Minister, so good to see you,” Mycroft said, reaching across the small cluster of people to shake the big man’s his hand, the move jogging the glass of champagne in Mycroft’s left hand. “And Detective Inspector Lestrade, isn’t it? Jolly good of you to make it, surprised they let you out to anything that doesn’t involve a dead body.” He beamed at the little group, taking a large gulp from his glass.

“I’m... I think you have me confused with someone else,” the grey-haired man said.

Mycroft turned to focus on him properly. The height really was about right - five foot ten, although he lacked a bit in his shoulders - and the hair was a bit too short, a bit too dark. Mycroft blinked at him politely, as though he hadn’t quite heard. “Sorry?”

“My name is Crescente Sagese. I am not this, uh...army person you said?” the man trailed off with a vague gesture of one hand.

“Oh, isn’t it? I beg your pardon. It must be _very_ good champagne, I’m afraid. Awfully sorry. Where did you say you’re from?”

“I am here with the dental conference from Rome.”

“Are you? Fascinating. I didn’t know Rome even had a delegation. How’s the teeth business, then? Lot of customers these days?”

“I... yes, very good,” the man said, puzzled.

“Splendid, splendid. Well, I must get on,” Mycroft said quickly, spreading a farewell nod around the group. “So nice to have met you. Christopher, we’ll meet this week about those numbers. Cheerio.”

He made it to within a few yards of the doors before Sherlock caught him up. “Oh, _very_ nice,” Sherlock muttered into his ear. “Letting him think there are police here. That will do so much to relax him.”

“You had your thirty seconds,” Mycroft said mildly, glancing aside at him without pausing in his saunter toward the exit. “I can’t say fairer than that.”

“Nothing,” Sherlock snapped. “Not even a mobile.”

“Dear me. Not even a key card for his room?”

“3607,” Sherlock said, all but twitching in his frustration. “Already been through it.”

“Well I’m not sure what else I can offer you,” Mycroft told him with a casual shrug, landing his champagne flute neatly on a passing waiter’s tray and smiling at someone behind Sherlock.

“You can do precisely nothing,” Sherlock snapped. “Go home. Or wherever it is you’re storing your shirts these days.”

“Already on my way.” Mycroft took the stairs to the doors one at a time, forcing Sherlock to slow down or stop sniping. “Oh, and Sherlock,” he added, turning back when he reached the top. “You might find this useful.” He extended the first two fingers of his right hand with a worn brown wallet between them as if held in tweezers. “And don’t try it again on Lestrade. I’m going to let him know that you still haven’t mastered the inside middle pocket.” 


End file.
